


Narcissus at the Pond

by KiaraSayre



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bookshelf sex, Dream Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Transference, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Jim Kirk has issues, Let's Make Jim Kirk Even More Fucked Up, M/M, Mind Meld, One Night Stands, Porn With Plot, Self-cest, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaraSayre/pseuds/KiaraSayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Emotional transference</i>, the older Spock had said - well, clearly fuck that, because there was the wrenching, breathless pain that lasted for five minutes in a cave on Delta Vega and then there's having sex dreams about himself.</p><p>(Or, the one where emotional transference doesn't make Jim fall in love with Spock, it makes Jim fall in love with Jim.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissus at the Pond

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Desdemon for reading this through, and for gently correcting me when I had written a sexy check and not sexy cashed it.
> 
> See end notes for detailed content warnings.

The first time Jim steps back on the Enterprise bridge after the fallout of the Narada, he almost cries. It comes over him with no warning when he sees the viewscreen and the sleekly geometric reflections off the consoles, the familiar Captain's chair and, hell, even the _carpeting_ : a wrenching loss and the profound sense of being finally _found_ , like the first time he saw his mother after one of her assignments in space and realized she looked older, like a benediction and a reprieve.

He writes it off as a sign of how attached he got to the Enterprise during the Narada thing, and also of how fucked up he is in general, because he's pretty fucked up.

 

Bones catches him running fond and careful fingers over the desk in the ready room, as Jim tries to parse the bittersweet heaviness inside of him, the certainty that strikes to the core of him that he's home, he's come _home_ , and each moment he's here can never be recaptured and needs to be savored.

"Uh, _Jim_?" says Bones, and Jim blinks and looks up.

"Uh, _Bones_?" he replies.

"Are you done fondling your office furniture, or would you like a moment alone?" Bones gestures at the desk. "I'm more than happy to give you some space - it'd be nice to know you have a partner that won't give you any venereal diseases or throw anything at you or unsuspecting innocent bystanders."

"One time, _one time_ with one person and I never hear the end of it," says Jim, and lets the familiar rhythm of talking - well, arguing - with Bones take over.

 

The first dream is not, actually, a sex dream. It isn't really even a dream - just a series of impressions. The cool solidity of glass against his fingers, heaviness in his lungs that's nearly impossible to breathe past, and a whispered _"You have been, and always shall be, my friend - "_

Jim wakes up with tear tracks cooling on his cheeks and a whole hell of a lot of confusion.

 

The second dream is _definitely_ a sex dream.

He's never felt heat like this, as though it'll burn him from the inside, and he pushes his partner against a wall and fucks into him rabidly, senselessly - the friction stokes the fires and he bites against a shoulder blade as though he can consume his partner entirely - 

Not that his partner minds, based on the gasps and the hand scrabbling against his ass to pull him closer, and when he reaches around to grasp his partner he realizes that he isn't the only one enjoying this - 

His partner's voice breaks even as he strings the syllable over a gasp - " _Spock_ \- "

Which is when Jim wakes up, hard as hell and rubbing against his mattress like that'll do a damn thing. Too disoriented to stop himself, especially with the fever still running through his veins, he grabs himself and, within three strokes, has what may just be the best damn orgasm of his life.

The realization jerks him out of what was otherwise shaping up to be quite a nice afterglow: he didn't just have a sex dream about Spock, he just had a sex dream where he _was_ Spock.

He sits up, but any hope that it was just a dream - that he didn't just get off on being Spock - doesn't last past the rediscovery of his sticky sheets.

Jim cleans up as quickly as he can, more confused than anything else - he came to terms long ago with his kinks, how he likes to be held down and smacked around a little bit, if he really trusts his partner, but this is taking it to a whole new level. And, yeah, maybe he'd had his own private fantasies once or twice about Spock's hands around his neck and _way_ more pleasant activities to do while pinned against a console on the bridge, but that's - and this was - 

Jim stumbles into his private bathroom - the perks of being captain - and splashes cold water on his face. If there's anything Jim Kirk is good at, other than getting beaten up, it's repressing shit, so as of tomorrow morning, this never happened.

 

It's not the first time that Jim beats Spock at chess. But no, this time Jim _spanks_ Spock at chess - Jim knows every move Spock is going to make five moves before he makes it, Jim can see his strategies unrolling across the board like constellations, and some shrouded memory in the back of his mind remembers how he got beaten the last time he used that strategy. Which is bullshit, because Jim's always played on instinct - no strategy, no analysis, just going by what feels _right_.

The game doesn't last long.

"Your skills have improved significantly," says Spock. Jim has gotten good enough at translate Vulcan tones to read the way Spock's tongue and teeth release each syllable: nonplussed but pleased. Spock probably thinks it's the practice with him that's made Jim improve, as though Spock's logic is contagious somehow. And maybe it is, because how else could this have happened?

"Yeah," Jim mutters. He leans his hands against each other, tenting his fingers together like a roof, and taps his mouth against his middle and index fingers as he stares at the board. 

"Captain?" says Spock. "Is something troubling you?"

Jim looks up, and for a moment sees a ghost of a crooked smile and hazel eyes. But when he blinks, there's only Spock, the inside corners of his eyebrows drawn in with concern.

"No, I'm good," Jim lies.

 

Jim is not even a little bit good and he's getting worse.

He's always been a man of science, but ghosts look more and more plausible when he keeps _seeing_ things. Thoughts pop into his head without warning, overly-precise risk calculations and percentages and chains of logical arguments. Out of the corner of his eye, his reflection seems to have pointed ears and his uniform shirt looks blue, in the same subtle way that his brain fills in the color of the carpet when he's not paying attention to it when he enters the room - he expects to see it, so his mind puts it there.

He doesn't have any more dreams, not for a while, but that doesn't mean he's sleeping well, and Bones notices, damn him.

"Shore leave," says Bones in a tone that brooks no argument. "I'm not kidding, Jim, go get some rest. You look like hell."

He feels like hell, but he takes the shore leave anyway, leaving the ship in Spock's more-than-capable hands. They're in orbit around some planet that isn't exactly Risa, but it has a bar, and that's enough.

Jim smiles at the ladies and makes appreciative small-talk with the bartender. More than small-talk, actually, once Jim lets slip that he tended bar for a while before joining Starfleet. 

The bartender plants a bottle of tequila on the bar in front of Jim with a glint in his eye that's half challenge and half willingness to be impressed. "Know any tricks?"

Jim lets the beginnings of a smile take root on his face and looks the bartender up and down. He's a bit more buttoned-down than most bartenders Jim's met, with combed-flat hair and good-natured dimples from smiling tracing out orbital arcs at the corners of his mouth. Jim can see the soft curves of muscle mass on his biceps, though, and his shoulders are broad in a way that Jim can't help but find attractive.

"I know plenty of tricks," Jim says, and lets the smile blossom. "My name's Jim."

"Hello, Jim," says the bartender, with half a smile so knowing it's almost a smirk. "Do a trick and maybe I'll tell you mine."

His name is Steven, and Jim learns over the course of the evening - and over progressively more alcohol - that he has an advanced degree in Classics but owns the bar, which has been in the family for years. Jim, usually so careful to count his drinks to keep himself pleasantly shitfaced without actually puking all over himself, loses track of how much he's had, and by the time Steven leans over the bar and says that the bar's closing, does Jim want to come up and see his collection of old hardcovers?, Jim absolutely does.

Steven's bookshelves are indeed filled with old books, and the smell of yellowed paper and bookbinding glue hits Jim as they enter Steven's apartment above the bar.

"Shakespeare, of course, in a variety of editions. A few copies of Dante, and Ovid in the original Latin and a couple of translations." Steven turns around to face Jim. "You know, I think all you really need to study the classics is an appreciation for how many euphemisms for various sexual acts they could come up with." Steven glances down, and smiles a wolfish smile. "I do like to see true… _appreciation_ of my collection."

Jim has a true appreciation of anyone who responds to a hardon caused by a book collection with appreciation. He takes a step forward, and when Steven takes a corresponding step backwards - accompanied by two fingers hooked into the waistband of Jim's jeans - he takes another, until Steven is pinned up against the bookshelf with one of Jim's arms braced on the shelf behind him. The blown black of Steven's pupils leave only a thin rim of hazel, and his erection presses against Jim's thigh.

"What do you want here, Steven?" Jim asks, letting the fingers of his free hand skim over the skin sloping down from Steven's hipbone.

"Are you asking what's on the table?" says Steven, his voice gratifyingly breathy. "Basically, don't come on my books and my safeword is 'no.' You?"

Jim grins, then twines his fingers into Steven's gelled-down hair and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss, running his tongue over the back of Steven's teeth and palming Steven's dick, hard. Steven moans, his head tilting back against the bookshelf with a thud, and Jim takes that as encouragement. The memory of the fever is back, blurring the world at the edges and melting the moments into each other: Jim's mouth against Steven's neck, Jim's teeth on Steven's collarbone, the uneven jerks of Steven's hips teasing Jim to full arousal even as his fingers dig into Jim's stomach where he's still clutching at Jim's waistband.

Jim closes his eyes even as he gets his hand into Steven's jeans and circles his dick. Steven's free arm comes up around Jim, his hand slipping underneath Jim's shirt and his nails digging into Jim's shoulderblades, leaving stinging lines of heat. Sweat hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of old books in a way that just makes Jim press against Steven harder until Steven pulls his mouth away from Jim's - when did that happen? - and gasps, "Not on the books!"

"Right," Jim mutters, and takes a step back. Steven reaches towards one of the accent tables next to the couch that Jim had completely ignored, and opens a small drawer to pull out a small tube of lube and a box of condoms. Then Steven turns back towards Jim, gives a damn cocky smile, the cat that caught the canary.

"Want to see one of _my_ tricks?" he says, and puts a hand on Jim's chest, using gentle pressure to step him back until Jim's the one with his back against the bookcase. He drops the lube and condoms, close enough that he can reach them, and hooks his fingertips under the bottom of Jim's shirt, letting the tips brush against Jim's skin. Jim shivers, and as his head falls back he discovers that he's just the right height for one of the shelves to be right at the base of his head. Then Steven leans down and begins lifting Jim's shirt off, letting his mouth follow the line of newly-exposed skin as it moves upwards, ghosting his lips and the occasional tongue-touch along Jim's stomach, his ribs, a small nip at his collarbone, a messy kiss against the pulse point in his neck - 

Steven throws Jim's shirt to the other side of the living room and drops to his knees. As he works on Jim's zipper, Jim can feel the warm ebb and flow of breath against his stomach, so different from the uneven surfaces, lacquered wood, and cloth book spines against his back.

"You okay with a condom?" Steven asks, slightly breathlessly.

"Yeah," Jim says, "yeah, condom's good."

Steven rewards him by mouthing Jim's dick through his briefs, and Jim chokes on a groan as the sensation flutters through him.

After a quick reach to grab the box of condoms and pull one out, Steven returns to pull Jim's boxers and jeans down with a fluid motion, leaving them gathered around Jim's ankles. Jim would object, but he never took his damn shoes off, and hell if he's stopping now to take care of that.

Besides, this leaves Jim exposed, almost naked against a bookcase while Steven's still fully clothed. The corners of the shelves are already scraping Jim's back and ass, and he can tell they're going to leave hot red marks that will linger for at least a couple days. When he leans back in the captain's chair, he'll feel them, a reminder of being laid out against a stranger's classics collection.

The thought just makes him harder.

Steven notices, and grins up at him. He maintains eye contact as he rips open the condom packet and applies it to Jim like an expert, keeping the tip pinched as he rolls it over Jim's dick, allowing his fingers to leave trails of pressure down Jim's length. Jim's breath picks up as Steven takes a moment to admire his handiwork, then takes Jim's dick into his mouth.

Jim's eyes close and his head falls back against as Steven goes to work, with his lips and his tongue and his hands on Jim's ass, nails digging in and keeping Jim pinned. Without being able to move his hips, Jim can only tremble as the electric pleasure spreads through him, curling his toes and making him writhe. He grasps the shelves behind his head for purchase, the sleek surface of the wood against his fingers grounding him even as Steven drives him closer and closer. 

Steven gives a pleased hum, and the vibrations almost drive Jim over the edge - the floor is falling out from under him, or maybe he's floating, he's almost reeling with how much he needs this, and he tries uselessly to thrust against Steven's mouth, but he's trapped by Steven's hands on his ass. One of his hands slips off the shelf and twines into Steven's hair, tugging instinctively, and he's rewarded with suction that almost undoes him entirely. He has to fight not to shout, he can feel the cry rising up in his throat as his mouth falls open and his ragged breaths echo a counterpoint to the pounding of his blood in his ears, and the fingers that aren't pulling his partner closer to him are scrabbling against the spines of the books behind him. The room is spinning and he feels drunker than alcohol has ever made him, heat building through him and electricity snapping his movements to jerky unevenness until he comes with an elastic pleasure that ripples through him and the words get tangled on his tongue - _t'hy'la, t'hy'la, t'hy'la, **Jim**_ -

 

"Have a good shore leave?" asks Bones, as sour as ever once Jim gets back on the ship. "Nice and relaxing?"

Jim plasters on a smile and says, "You know it."

Bones frowns, and Jim curses internally that Bones knows him as well as he does. "You'd tell me if something were wrong, right?" asks Bones, his voice pitched low but sympathetic.

"Of course," Jim lies.

Because the thing is, they've been through some weird shit together - like their entire sophomore year at the Academy - but there's weird shit and then there's whatever's happening to Jim, which is probably diagnosable. Or would be, if he had any idea what it was.

 

He has another fucking dream that night, this time of an apartment in San Francisco, way nicer than any apartment Jim's ever had: he can see Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course the Bay itself. He pours a cup of coffee into a mug with a shiny Starfleet insignia embossed into the side, and when he turns around, someone's waiting for him: fair hair, an unfamiliar Starfleet uniform with layers of red over a cream collar, and eyes shining with warmth.

"You made me coffee!" The man takes the mug, cupping it without touching the handle.

Jim raises an eyebrow. "I am well aware of your dependence on caffeine and have no wish to subject myself to you without it in the morning."

"So thoughtful," says the man, and takes a sip, closing his eyes with pleasure. "Can I make you breakfast?"

"Your uniform indicates that you have been called into Command for a briefing," Jim says.

The man smiles at him. "The Academy is starting their round of Kobayashi Maru exams today. I'll be in and out all week, I'm afraid. Duty calls. I'd offer you a kiss goodbye, but I have morning breath. Well, had. Now I have coffee breath." He extends two fingers of his free hand, and Jim fills with a pleased warmth. "Is this right?" the man asks. "It didn't look that complicated when your mother did it…"

"There is no particular form attached to the gesture," Jim says, and rests his own index and middle fingers against the man's. For a moment he can feel the ridges on the pads of the man's fingers, the warmth of the coffee cup radiating through his own hand, the soft, high neck of the uniform against his throat, and most of all a contentedness that flows through all parts of him equally, passing through his skin, curling around his muscles, and pooling in his bones.

"Oh," says the man, and smiles again. "There it is." 

"Indeed," says Jim, and allows his fingers to lift away from the man's. "The Kobayashi Maru is a stressful examination for even the most prepared recruits; to add an element of delay would be only cruel."

"Well, when you're right, you're right," says the man, and chugs the rest of his coffee with a grimace. "I'd better get going - for all my feelings about the Kobayashi Maru, it looks like it may well be the closest I get to the bridge of an actual ship for a good long while." He gives Jim another fond smile. "I hope your day's more exciting than mine, Spock."

Jim raises an eyebrow. "Based on your description, I have no doubt that it will be, Jim."

Which is when Jim _actually_ wakes up in his own empty bed.

 

He doesn't get back to sleep. Eventually he gives up, gets a cup of coffee from the replicator in his quarters, and sits down with a PADD and a translation program. He knows the most direct route to answers, but hell if he's going to ask Uhura for a translation of _t'hy'la_ as an entree into _that_ conversation. He can imagine it now: 'Hey, Lieutenant, while you've been fucking my First Officer, have you noticed any weird Vulcan telepathic sex stuff going on, maybe giving you a hard-on for an alternate universe version of yourself?'

Because it didn't take long after he woke up to recognize his mother's muddy hazel eyes, the swoop of his father's jaw, even the good-natured banter that he recognizes from his own good days, and the pieces have been fitting into place since then. _Emotional transference_ , the older Spock had said - well, clearly fuck that, because there was the wrenching, breathless pain that lasted for five minutes in a cave on Delta Vega and then there's having sex dreams about himself.

The body of literature on mind-melds isn't large, because apparently Vulcan telepathy isn't as scientifically interesting as the empaths of Betazed or everything about the Aenar, but it's big enough that Jim can tell that he won't find what he's looking for without more targeted searches. Starfleet has regulations regarding the privacy of their crew, but no way in hell is Jim going to search for 'Vulcan mind-meld sex dreams' on a Starfleet server, not while he wants to keep his dignity. And his job.

Which leaves only one option, with two iterations: talk to a Spock. And Jim isn't quite that desperate yet.

He does look up the translation of _t'hy'la_ , though, and isn't surprised by what he finds: friend, brother, lover, beloved.

The other Jim Kirk was damn lucky, Jim thinks. This Jim Kirk has never been beloved by anyone.

 

The dreams aren't even the worst part. Jim catches himself referencing things that never happened and drawing on experiences that aren't really his. He draws connections that he never would've thought of before, and it's only later that he realizes why the situation felt so familiar: it's what the other Kirk would have done.

The knowledge stays in the back of his head, an inevitable certainty that takes root. Jim Kirk was a great man. Jim Kirk brought down empires and went beyond the ends of the universe for his crew. Jim Kirk was the golden boy of Starfleet, the North that so many compasses aligned to, a symbol of everything that Starfleet could be at its best.

This Jim Kirk has been running routine patrols in empty space while the admiralty keeps him out of the way in case being a fuckup is more contagious than being an accidental hero. This Jim Kirk has absolutely no idea what he's doing beyond really, _really_ not wanting to get his crew killed. He can't help but wonder sometimes - what would Jim Kirk do?

And the dreams have stopped, but sometimes, when he's just on the brink of waking up, Jim can feel someone else in his bed and knows, just _knows_ , that he's not alone in this - that it's not just him versus the world.

And then he wakes up.

 

Sometimes it's like someone's layered another reality over Jim's, when he least expects it. He sees the ghost of his other self in the Captain's chair on the bridge. He finds himself making mental notes of things to tell his other self as he goes about his day. He absentmindedly replicates two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for his other self.

At least he's stopped worrying that he's turning into Spock: now that the shadow of James T. Kirk has stepped into the light, it's all Kirks, all the time.

Instead, he's left with a habitual mourning of someone he's never even met, as though a chunk of his life is just - missing. His hand hits the empty pillow expecting it to be occupied even though it never has been, and his quarters look sparsely decorated, as though making up space for the other decorations that should be there, even though there've never been any. It's a restless ache that fills him, whether he wants it to or not.

But no way in hell is he talking to Spock - _either_ Spock.

 

Except apparently the dreams _haven't_ stopped, not entirely, because it's that first dream again but this time in full-color and surround sound.

Jim forces each word out through increasingly numb lips. "I have been, and always shall be, your friend." His aching, disintegrating hand leaves green smears against the glass as he forces his fingers into the salute. He feels each breath on the inside of his lungs like thumbtacks pressed there, and even keeping his head upright takes more strength than it ever has before. 

He sees himself on the other side of the glass, clutching desperately at it, a look in his eyes like the end of the world.

"Live long...and prosper."

And then darkness.

Jim wakes up sobbing, in a way that he hasn't since he was a child, curled up on his side and hugging himself against the damage that was never there at all. 

 

Bones calls him in for a spot-medical exam, which regulations unfortunately state he can do whenever he wants to.

"I'm pretty sure these exams don't usually happen in your office," says Jim, with only half-hearted snippiness managing to get past the exhaustion.

Bones closes the door behind him. "I don't care," he says, and points to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, Jim, and tell me what the hell is going on."

Jim looks at him for a long moment, then sits and tells.

"You know how the Narada incident created an alternate timeline? Well, the Spock from the original timeline mind-melded with me on Delta Vega and now I'm remembering things that never happened. Oh, and I have the hots for myself. My other-timeline self. Because apparently, in the original timeline, Spock and I were a thing."

Bones just stares for a minute, his eyebrows raised, and then he pulls a bottle of bourbon out of his desk drawer.

"Is that medicinal?" Jim asks, tilting his head to get a better angle to see it.

"Yes," says Bones, and swigs directly from the bottle.

"...do I get any?" Jim asks.

Bones barks out a laugh, short and sharp. "At this point, do you really think it'll _help_?"

"Thanks for your _support_ ," Jim snaps. 

Bones relents, and slides the bottle across the desk. "Look, if this is a Vulcan sex thing, we know at least one person who knows a lot about - "

"I'm not talking to Uhura."

"Fine, then - "

"I'm not talking to Spock."

"For God's sake, Jim - "

" _Either_ Spock."

Bones's mouth folds and thins in the way that means he's had it about up to here with Jim and his bullshit. Jim can't really blame him at this point.

"I can do a brain scan," Bones says, "which can at least tell us if this is something neurochemical or just telepathic. If it's just telepathic, there's not much I can do. Aside from referring you to people you refuse to talk to, of course."

So Bones does a brainscan.

It's just telepathic.

Fuck.

"I get that this is a weird situation," says Bones, letting the PADD with the results clatter onto his desk and circling around it, "but you're getting to be a certifiable wreck. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

Jim scrubs at his eyes. "There are...dreams."

"Forget I asked." Bones sighs and folds his arms. "How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

Jim considers the question seriously. The results aren't promising - he hasn't had any of his hallucination-memories on a mission, but that's not to say that it won't happen, and when it does there'll be no hiding it. And the dreams are back in full force, and he's not sure which are worse: the sex dreams are exhausting, obviously, but the quiet ones are the ones that stick with him all day. 

Jim sighs. "Fine," he mutters, "I'll talk to the other Spock."

 

It isn't the most comfortable conversation of his life, to say the least.

"Jim," says the older Spock, his voice heavy and creaking like an old house in a storm, "I regret that my actions have caused you any inconvenience. I can only assure you it was not my intention."

"I never thought it was," Jim says, before adding, "I mean, if it _were_ your intention to plant the need to bone someone in my subconscious, it would probably be you. Or the other you. Or at least someone who exists in this reality."

"You are correct in that the original mind-meld has caused your...symptoms," the older Spock continues, as though Jim hadn't spoken. "My memories and emotions are conflicting against yours, and your mind is compensating my bringing those most in conflict to the forefront. It is not an uncommon side effect of a poorly-executed mind-meld."

Jim opens his mouth to say that the older Spock's melding technique is probably just fine, then closes it again. Not only does the older Spock probably know better, but anyone's technique in anything would probably be pretty fucked right after watching the destruction of their planet.

"There is a remedy to this situation," the older Spock says. "There is a compound known as lexorin, which may alleviate the symptoms of the meld. In addition, another meld, targeted to allow you direct access to the memories and emotions in question, will allow you to confront and properly incorporate the memories and emotions into your subconscious."

"That's a problem," says Jim. "You're several hundred thousand lightyears away at the moment, and I don't think I can get in a change of flightplan to New Vulcan anytime in the near future…"

"The meld need not be with me," says the older Spock. "Or, rather," he adds, with a glimmer of irony that Jim has thankfully _not_ seen in his younger self, "not _this_ version of me."

"Oh, no," says Jim.

"It is possible that the lexorin on its own will have a sufficient effect, or perhaps dedicated meditation," says the older Spock, "but unlikely. Any telepath will be able to easily identify and direct you towards the memories in question."

"Yeah, I think I'll try the drugs first," says Jim.

 

The advantage of the lexorin is that it deals with some of his symptoms - the dreams, the unexpected surges of emotions.

It just also causes unexpected flashbacks, as they discover in the middle of a firefight on Shigrunn IV. It's Spock who tackles Jim to the ground when the sparks and explosions seem to scatter across the Enterprise's bridge even though they're planetside, the disorientation severe enough that Jim doesn't even notice the Shigrunni grenade lobbed at him until Spock's already gotten him out of the way.

And it's Spock who ends up next in Jim's ready room, his posture ramrod-perfect and his jaw set in that way that means he's decided that the only logical course is to start fucking shit up.

"Captain - " he begins, and Jim holds up a hand to wave him off.

"I know what you're about to say, and I owe you an explanation," he says. "Although it may cause the universe to implode."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I take it you are referring to my alternate-timeline self?"

Jim stares at him for a long moment. "That sneaky son of a bitch. He said - "

"He _implied_ ," says Spock.

"Oh, fuck you! Both of you!" Jim throws himself into his office chair, trying not to feel too petulant. "I guess that's one thing that's constant across universes. Both of you are an asshole."

"I fail to see how an alternate-timeline version of myself could have impacted your performance on Shigrunn IV," says Spock.

Jim realizes that his thumb is tapping rapidly against his desk, and snatches his hand back. "It's a little - well, it's personal."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I was unaware that you concerned yourself with discretion."

"Personal for _you_ ," says Jim. "Well, the other you."

"I find it difficult to believe that in any universe I would value my own privacy so highly that I would rather risk my captain falling victim to a grenade than forego it," Spock says, as sour as he ever gets.

Jim sighs and throws his hands up. "Fine. On Delta Vega, the other you did a mind-meld to get me up to speed on the whole timeline situation. Only a couple other things slipped in through the cracks - memories, emotions, that kind of thing."

Spock's eyebrows come together. "And it was those memories that affected you on Shigrunn."

"Yeah. And apparently now the only thing that we can do about it is do another mind-meld and 'confront' the memories, whatever the hell that means."

Spock tilts his head. "No doubt metaphorically gaining emotional closure with the disquieting memories will allow your subconscious to process them and keep them from making themselves known at inopportune moments. A mind-meld would allow you easy access to these memories." Spock's frown deepens, and he asks, "Why did you not tell me sooner?"

"Well, first of all, I was kind of under the impression that telling you about the other you would materially contribute to the destruction of the universe, so thanks for that. Second, like I said, some of this stuff is...private."

"Was it your privacy or the privacy of my alternate-timeline counterpart that concerned you?"

Jim shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Both. I know how you Vulcans are about...certain things."

"Your concern is misguided," says Spock. "If you are referring to memories of a sexual nature, I assure you, there is no need for privacy between timelines. Especially given that, given the destruction of Vulcan, I am exceedingly unlikely to marry a Vulcan woman and thus live out the life that my alternate-timeline counterpart did, there is very little from his life that is likely applicable to mine. As for your own sexuality, you have hardly been known for your discretion in the past."

"Okay, that last part was just uncalled for," says Jim, but after a second's thought he concedes, "but probably justified. And that first part - do you know what one of the phrases that happened to come through was?" He gives it a second for dramatic effect, and then says, " _Pon farr_."

Spock's eyes widen ever-so-slightly, which for Spock basically means _direct hit, you sunk my battleship_. Jim allows himself a wolfish smile.

"Clearly this situation must be remedied immediately," Spock says. "I will begin preparations for a mind-meld. We will conduct it in your quarters at eighteen-hundred hours." He starts to turn to leave, then hesitates. "I would...greatly appreciate your discretion in this matter, Captain."

Jim holds up his hands. "Hey, I wasn't going to tell you at all, remember? Although you should probably tell Uhura, and sooner rather than later."

Spock's voice is gratifyingly strangled as he says, "That is none of your concern," and leaves.

 

Jim has no idea what the right preparations for a mind-meld are, but he assumes that most of it's just for show, given that the other Spock did one in an ice cave on Delta Vega. On the other hand, that might be what got them into this situation in the first place, so Jim decides to rely on Spock for anything they might need.

He's not disappointed: Spock brings a blanket, which he spreads out on the floor like a freaking picnic, and small cushions for them to sit on, then motions for Jim to sit.

Jim sits across from Spock, cross-legged on his pillow. "Why the pillows?"

"The work that we will be conducting is work of the mind, not the body, but in doing so you will be somewhat removed from your body," says Spock. 

"So am I going to come out of this thing with a cramp?" Jim wonders, looking around.

"I believe the applicable Earth phrase is, 'We will cross that bridge when we come to it,'" says Spock.

"So basically you don't care about my physical well-being. Got it."

"Are you prepared for the meld?" Spock asks.

"Was there homework?" asks Jim, watching Spock's hands where they rest on his knees. He hadn't been nervous until he got here.

"No. Do you consent to the meld?" Spock continues.

Jim takes a deep breath. "Yes," he says. "Okay, wait, though, there's just one thing that I should probably tell you before you're all...in my head."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I fail to see what could be so important - "

"The other Spock and the other Kirk were a thing," says Jim.

Spock's expression doesn't change. "I believe I am unfamiliar with that euphemism in this context."

"No, you aren't," says Jim. "They were fucking. More than fucking. They were a couple, they were in love, they were - they were _t'hy'la_."

Spock's only reaction is a brief, surprised silence before speaking. "In that case, it would seem prudent for me to help you identify the memories and then allow you to...gain closure however you feel is appropriate."

Jim frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Each sentient being's subconscious is different," says Spock. "Although I can assist you in locating the memories, what will be necessary to come to terms with them is up to you."

There are a lot of directions that could go in, and Jim's not sure he wants to think about them.

"We will begin," says Spock, and brings his fingers to lay against Jim's face - the ridge of his brow, where his cheek meets his eye, and just below his lower lip. "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts…"

Then - 

It's a house, a small farmhouse with old white paneling and a blue slate roof, touched with gold by the lazy afternoon sun and nestled in a field of swaying tall grass. The sight of it drives the breath out of Jim as he's overwhelmed by memories: the sharp sting of skinning his knees against the gravel of the drive, the way the white paint of the paneling would flake off on his fingers if he ran his hands over it, the warm buttery smell of his grandmother's biscuits and the particular pattern of grass stains over his worn boyhood jeans.

"This does not seem like the correct location," says Spock, looking around.

"No," says Jim, his voice coming out as a croak. "No, this is right, I can tell."

"Where are we?"

Jim clears his throat. "Riverside, Iowa. My grandparents' house. This is where Sam and I kept coming back, when we got kicked out of our uncle's or when we were sent home from being off-world. But they moved out years ago..." It's the closest thing he had to a home growing up, and if there was some quiet place inside of him that would always feel like home, this would be it.

"Do you have any reason to believe that your memories will be located inside?" Spock asks.

"Well, apparently it's my subconscious, so they've got to be somewhere," Jim says, and starts down the drive towards the house. Spock catches up with him, and follows him onto the porch. 

Jim hesitates at the door, then takes a deep breath and lays his hand against the doorknob. It's slightly warm from the sunshine, and the door opens easily when Jim turns it.

"Wipe your feet," Jim instructs absently, scuffing his own shoes against the mat, and after a moment he hears Spock doing the same. The inside of the house looks just as it always did, with his grandmother's favorite recliner at a right angle to the couch where Jim spent many a late-night-early-morning icing a newly-acquired black eye, and the dining space beyond it where his grandfather had spent so many hours coaxing Jim into taking another bite of food after his time on Tarsus. There's a fireplace along one wall, the mantle lined with pictures of their son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren in various combinations. The kitchen is just to the left of the dining area, separated by half a wall and a counter, and Jim can tell that they aren't alone by the rich smell of coffee filling the house.

"Hello?" he calls.

The other version of himself comes around the counter into the dining area, holding a cup of coffee in one hand. This isn't the Admiral Kirk that Jim dreamed about, but a younger version, wearing command gold and the pips for captain. This is the other Kirk as Spock must have met him, Jim realizes - captaining the Enterprise.

Captain Kirk looks Jim up and down, and then smiles. "Coffee?" he offers, holding the cup out. "I assume you take it the same way I do, under the circumstances."

Jim stares - he can't help himself. 

"Or not," says Captain Kirk, and sips the coffee himself. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he says. "You've come an awful long way to talk to me."

"How are you…?" says Jim, before his words fail him again.

"I'm not," says Captain Kirk, pulling out a chair at the dining room table. "I'm a memory of a memory, transferred to you through Spock. My Spock, I should say," he adds, with a conciliatory tilt of his head in Spock's direction. "Although my Spock did know me quite well, so I'd say I'm a very _good_ memory."

"You're…"

"You're not very good at finishing sentences, are you?" asks Captain Kirk, and takes another sip of coffee. "I suppose it'll come with a bit more command experience. Or perhaps you expected me to be eight feet tall and breathing fire. You wouldn't be the first person to fall prey to my reputation."

"I've seen it," says Jim. "I've seen _you_ , your entire captaincy on the Enterprise, everything you did, every decision you made, every miracle you managed to pull off."

"Through Spock's eyes," Captain Kirk corrects him. "A small but important distinction. We rarely build anyone up as much as the ones we love, after all, and my Spock has had several decades to fondly forget my flaws, numerous though they were."

Jim looks back vaguely in Spock's direction, his Spock, long enough for Spock to get the point; Jim hears his quiet footfalls and the soft creak of the screen door opening and closing.

Then Jim says, "Spock - your Spock - really loves you."

Captain Kirk's eyes smile before his mouth even begins to curve. "I was very lucky," he says. "Over time - a lot of time, I should add - we found that we belonged next to each other more than anywhere else in the universe." He looks around the house. "Give it time. I'd wager that in a decade or two this place will look very different." He turns back to Jim. "The universe is an amazingly large place, Captain. Whatever you're looking for, you'll find it out there, not in here." 

"You were an amazing captain," Jim says quietly. "I don't...how do I live up to that?"

Captain Kirk reaches over and pushes out another chair, and after a slight hesitation Jim steps forward to sit in it. 

"You don't," Captain Kirk says. "You don't have to. New world, new rules. I have to admit, this isn't exactly the direction that _my_ life went in, but who knows? I certainly had my rebellious phase. Maybe you're just having it early. Goodness knows it never seemed to end once it began."

"You were a legend," says Jim.

"So what?" says Captain Kirk. "Be your own legend. If you try to be my legend, it's not going to end well. For one thing, you're one of about two people in this universe who have any idea who I am, separate from you." Captain Kirk leans in, his gaze almost electric. "Here's all the advice you'll ever need about how to captain a starship: keep your crew safe, bring them home...and go boldly."

Then Jim leans across the space between their chairs and kisses him.

It's not the best kiss Jim's ever had, because the angle is awkward, but it doesn't seem to take Captain Kirk by surprise - instead Kirk kisses him back, cupping Jim's face and filling the hollow of his palm with the angle of Jim's jaw. 

The weight of it propels Jim forward - all of the unconscious habits he's been living, the shadows of Spock's affection, the memories of discovery and loss and rediscovery, and on the other hand the need for a new memory, one that's his - _his_ hand on Kirk's hip, _his_ tongue tasting Kirk's lips, _his_ knees bumping against Kirk's -

Kirk pushes off of his chair and Jim lets the momentum knock him off his own, and together they end up on the floor in a controlled tumble, Jim on top of Kirk and straddling his hips. Jim leans down to continue the kiss, his fingers finding the bottom of Kirk's uniform shirt, and he pulls back for a second to gauge Kirk's reaction as he lifts the shirt.

Kirk, breathing hard, grins, warm and reckless. "Are you waiting for an invitation?"

That's all the invitation Jim needs.

He pulls Kirk's shirt off, then lifts his own arms to let Kirk return the favor. As Kirk's fingers brush up Jim's torso, Jim is suddenly reminded of Steven, and wonders how much of what he remembers from that night is these memories of Kirk spilling over. 

Then Kirk licks a stripe up Jim's sternum, and Jim decides it isn't worth thinking about right now.

He takes the lead, pulling down Kirk's uniform pants enough to reveal Kirk's dick. It shouldn't surprise him that it looks so much like his own, but it does, at least for a moment. Then Jim encircles the base with his fingers and takes as much of it into his mouth as he can, sucking greedily at it and sucking harder when Kirk's hips jerk.

It ignites something in Jim: maybe he can't be the great Captain that this Kirk was, but he can make Kirk moan, can stroke him and suck him until he trembles, can get the rhythm that nobody else can because it's him, it's his rhythm too, and he exploits every erogenous zone, every secret kink he knows of. He lets his nails scratch at Kirk's back and ass, pulls his mouth off every now and then to suck and bite at the insides of Kirk's thighs, massages his perineum in rhythm with his suction, until Kirk's hands land on the back of Jim's head and card through his hair. Jim expects him to push, to fuck Jim's mouth, but instead Kirk tugs his head up, half-sitting up and pulling Jim up to kiss him fiercely enough that he can surely taste the precome in Jim's mouth.

Instead Kirk pulls them both back down using his own weight, lining them up so that Jim's hardon rubs against Kirk's through Jim's uniform pants. Through the sloppy, desperate kisses, Kirk still manages to pull down Jim's own pants, and then their dicks are lined up and sliding against each other with friction that's almost too much. Jim has to close his eyes against it, break the kiss and let his forehead drop against Kirk's shoulder to even stand it as the pressure builds behind his eyes - his hips shy away from Kirk's on instinct but Jim needs this, he needs to be the instrument of Kirk's pleasure, he needs it to be too much so he reaches down and takes both of their dicks in his hand to keep them lined up and uses the momentum to keep going. 

Kirk's breath is hitching and his fingers are making small, senseless scratches on Jim's back and when Jim makes himself open his eyes Kirk's mouth is mindlessly open, his lips pulling away from his teeth in concentration or maybe endurance and Kirk's dick stutters against Jim's as he comes and Jim can't hold back any more as his whole body tenses with the force of his orgasm like a bow loosing an arrow until it breaks over him and he collapses against Kirk.

He ends up falling limply so that Kirk's mouth is against his ear, and Kirk's breath rasps against Jim's skin. It takes Jim a few minutes to get back to anything near coherence, especially when he can feel the aftershocks twitching through Kirk's body. The loose, warm satisfaction of afterglow has its own inertia, and Jim is not particularly inclined to leave his state of rest.

But eventually he has to, and pulls himself to all fours above Kirk, who gives him a happy, relaxed, and above all well-fucked smile.

"I'm not sure if that was making love or an extreme expression of narcissism, but either way it was wonderful," Kirk tells him.

The weirdest thing about this entire situation immediately becomes that, in another universe, Jim was the type of person who unironically used the phrase 'making love.'

"I suppose it's convenient that the Starfleet uniforms appear to be different across universes," Kirk continues, looking at the discarded clothes around them.

"Well, I guess none of this is real anyway," Jim says, but the fact that it's all in his head doesn't make it any easier to suss out the different articles of clothing. Jim peeks at Kirk while they're both putting their clothes back on - he sees scars that he hasn't received yet, or maybe won't receive, but there are familiar ones in there, too. The oddness of it has at least faded away by now, and Jim doesn't see the monumental Captain James Tiberius Kirk that's been living in his head when he looks - he sees what might've been, or maybe what might still be. He's not sure if it would've been a simpler life. He knows it wouldn't have been an easier one, but the moments of happiness would have been more densely packed, that's for certain. It's easier now, somehow, to tell himself that his are just coming up, though.

Kirk habitually straightens his uniform shirt, the last article of clothing he lacked. "Now, I think I've taken up more than enough of your time," he says to Jim, who can't help but stand a little bit straighter. Kirk holds a hand out for him to shake. "I'm pleased to see my future is in such good hands."

Jim, instead, pulls himself to attention and salutes. The corner of Kirk's mouth draws up, even though his eyes glitter a bit more than they did a moment ago.

"At ease, Captain," Kirk says quietly. "You'll make me feel old."

Jim lets himself ease out of attention, ignoring the burgeoning sadness within him, like burying an old friend. Instead he says, "Us, old? Never."

 

He has one last dream:

He comes onto the bridge with his science blues visible out of the corner of his eye. As he approaches the chair, he can see an Uhura sitting at Comms who isn't his Uhura, but is familiar anyway, and a similar strangely-familiar Chekov and Sulu. The other Kirk sits in the captain's chair as Jim approaches, and looks up at him.

"Are we ready to go?" the other Captain Kirk asks.

"Aye, Captain," says Jim, and puts his hand on the back of the captain's chair.

And then he's the one in the chair, and it's his bridge again, with his Uhura and Chekov and Sulu, but it's the other Kirk standing at the chair, smiling down at him fondly. Beyond him, Spock - or rather, Spocks, since both of them are there, the younger at the Science Officer's station and the older standing by one of the readouts watching Jim.

"You're supposed to say it," says the older Kirk, drawing Jim's attention. When Jim looks at him, he has a twinkle in his eye, and tilts his head towards the viewscreen pointedly.

Jim can't help but smile a bit in return, and looks back towards the endless space in front of them. "Mr. Sulu," he says, "full speed ahead."

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: General poor emotional health and a mind-meld situation that makes consent tricky if not nonexistent.


End file.
